What Child is This?

We just returned from our annual pilgrimage to the east coast for Christmas with my family. I was going to complain about the flight from San Francisco to Newark and back with 2 children, 2 car seats and 150 diapers shoved into their own suitcase (in case we got stranded), but there's no story there. The kids behaved as well as a talkative 3 year old and constantly mobile 1 year could have, given they were relegated to a 4 x 2 ft space for 6 hours.

Though the journey sucked, once there, all nightmarish travel memories vanished. There are 2 things I look forward to the most each Christmas season. First is the continuous playing of 'What Child is This'. It evokes such emotion in me, not for the message, but purely for the gorgeous, dramatic music. Second is the children's service at my Uncle's church on Christmas Eve. I'm not a church goer, nor am I particularly religious, but for some reason the singing of Christmas carols off tune with the rest of the masses, the cool bell choir, and the dimming of the lights to sing Silent Night really get me. I was excited to go and I took Charlie with me. I wasn't sure how he was going to behave, but I figured it was the children's service so how bad could it be?

After my mother spent the entire 30 minute car ride talking up the bell choir, we arrived 5 minutes late, just in time to miss it. Charlie spent our first few moments in church asking in a very un-churchlike voice, 'Where are the bells? Why isn't anyone playing the bells?' I think he felt he had been duped. This was not what his Yia Yia (my mom) had promised him. During the choirs rendition of 'What Child is This', he became suspicious that no one else was singing, 'Why aren't we singing? Why are only those people up there singing? Why are they holding books?'

I didn't want to ignore his questions, so I whispered answers to him and calmly asked him to follow suit. Clearly he thought he was somewhere other than church and we were trying to hide it from him. The situation escalated, as did his decibel level, 'Is this church? Are we in church now? I'm being serious with you, Mommy, is this church?'

His concern of a cover up was further fueled as they turned off most of the lights in the church to sing Silent Night. 'Who turned off the lights? Where's the light switch? Did they lose power? Where will the utility repair truck have to go to fix the lights? How will they be able to see if there's no lights?' I'm not sure if when the entire congregation turned around it was to see the face that belonged to the voice or the parent responsible for it? Fortunately, most people looked amused. That quickly changed while in the midst of the minister's sermon, Charlie asked in his loudest voice yet, 'Is it over yet? Can we go? When will she be done?' The minister looked like she could easily switch teams and do the devil's bidding with her piercing glare. I thought only I could look at my son like that.

Fortunately, the service was about over as the bell choir wrapped things up with 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing'. It was fantastic and Charlie was completely mesmerized. I think he actually believed for the first time that he was at church. The bell people (not sure what you call them) were concentrating quite hard as they read their music and rang their bells. Charlie felt the need to ask a couple of more pertinent questions before his departure, 'How come they're not smiling? Are they not happy at church?'

As we headed out, at the end of the aisle the minister and choral director were waiting, greeting people and thanking them. They both knew exactly who we were as I tried to avoid direct eye contact. The choral director was quite pleasant and remarked how many bright and well thought out questions Charlie asked for his age. The minister stared at me and with a tight smile, muttered, 'Merry Christmas'. Charlie smiled right back and said, 'See you later, poo poo.' At the risk of being put on Santa's Naughty List, I whispered in his ear, 'Good job, buddy.'

Her Name Was Lola

Our friend Ray gave the boys a very large, and eerily lifelike, stuffed dog named Lola. Charlie and Gregory ride on Lola, drag her around the house on 'walks', they even put her under the table at dinner so she can eat the crumbs that fall on the floor. It's their real dog and no one can tell them otherwise.

Lola's first few nights with us, Charlie insisted she sleep in his room. He loved it and she served as a great monster protector. But by week's end, Charlie was waking up in the middle of the night, sneaking into my room to tell me Lola was making noises and could he come sleep in my bed. Then she was scaring him, and rightfully so, the dog has some beady eyes that are incredibly creepy and glow in the dark, like raccoon eyes.

When you have children, their imagination and playfulness are contagious. Lola's midnight scare sessions made me wonder why someone hadn't made a horror movie out of a kid's stuffed animal coming to life? Kind of like Chuckie meets the Blair Witch Project. Do it documentary style and have it star real kids getting the crap scared out of them. I'm sure it would be considered cruel and unusual punishment and would result in some jail time. Okay, not my greatest idea, but I'm a bit compulsive and could not let it go.

I started creating scenes in our very own home, with Brian as my star victim. One night he had a late work dinner, so I set Lola at the top of the stairs that lead from the garage into the house. I turned off all the lights except for one and when Brian opened the door, voila, Lola. All I heard was, "Jesus! Dammit, Lola." I laughed for a good 10 minutes. He was not amused.

The next evening, prior to going to bed, I put Lola in Brian's closet knowing he had an early morning meeting and would be out of the house before sunrise. 5:30 a.m. I awoke to a girlish scream. Brian, while bending down to grab his shiny black Bruno Magli's, was met with something else shiny and black. Lola's beady eyes. He got really mad and I was on a high for the rest of the day.

After 'making' this movie, I have a better understanding of Charlie and why he seems to be so jubilent when I'm being my worst, most emotional self. It's fun to evoke emotion and drama in others, especially when you have a front row seat. It's like a mini power trip or adrenaline rush. I can picture Charlie saying to Gregory, "Okay, let's wind her up and watch her go." Well, two can play that game. I'm thinking Charlie will be my next victim. I'll set up a bathtub scene for him and Lola, a kind of homage to Hitchcock. That should keep me going for a month.

Oakment Pogmitts

Charlie has a new game of sorts. It's called Oakment Pogmitts. It's taken me about a week of nagging him incessantly before figuring out how to say it; I took some creative license with the spelling. On my 5th or 6th attempt at trying to get the name right, What is it again, Oakman Pogman? Or is it Oakmitts Pogment? Charlie screamed at me, slowly and with his best enunciation for idiots voice, (as if I were mispronouncing dog or pen), "NO! It is Oak menTTT PoGGG mitSSSSSSSSS!"
The phrase was first mentioned a couple of weeks ago when I was trying to get Charlie down for his nap. He was making a lot of noise and doing his usual procrastination tactics, so I went into his room to tell him to quiet down. He was sitting in his bed, stacking these plastic inserts from the canopy of Gregory's infant car seat. He didn't even look up, he simply said, "I can't, Mommy. I'm preparing for a game of Oakment Pogmitts."
Even more reason to lay down and rest your body for the big game, Charlie. Now go to sleep! This same scenario played out for about another 30 minutes. He never took a nap and OP was not mentioned again, until the next day.
Charlie and I were on our regular Thursday afternoon Mommy-Charlie adventure, which can include anything from a trip to the car wash, the hardware or grocery store. This particular Thursday we were 'adventuring in the hay'. The hay is what Charlie calls the wetlands behind our local mall that have been set aside for hiking and bird watching. Lots of tall grass in which to play hide and go seek, chase birds, etc.
We started running down this trail and Charlie asks if I want to play Oakment Pogmitts? Eagerly I accept his offer and inquire about the rules. He explains that we have to keep running 'superman fast' down the dirt path and when we come to a rock, we have to 'crash over it'. That was it. I must admit, I got into it. Running like a mad woman, screaming Oakment Pogmitts at the top of my lungs was fun, more because I could say it properly, than out of excitement for the game itself.
A few days later I mentioned wanting to play OP again. Charlie said sure. I asked him to remind me of the rules. "Well first, you have to get a pillow. Then you kick it." Okay, what next? "No anything." What do you mean? "No anything. You kick the ball in the kah-kah and then you poopoo peepee it." (crazy maniacal laughter ensues).
Brian and I are obsessed with Oakment Pogmitts now. We wonder what could be happening in our child's brain that he came up with this name? We laugh about it non stop and try to work it into our everyday conversations. "Hey, wanna go into the bedroom and Oakment my Pogmitts?" That's the G-rated version, but you get the idea.
Tonight, Brian decided to broach the subject to see if he could get in on the game. Hey Charlie, can I play Oakment Pogmitts? Charlie sat there in silence, pretty much ignoring him. What is Oakment Pogmitts, he asked again, it sounds like a lot of fun? Charlie just glared at him and said, "I'm not talking." He was like a CIA operative about to be tortured, expressionless and unemotional as he let his captors know they'll never break him.

One Year and Still Here

Gregory turned 1 year old today. I feel I've learned a lot these past 12 months; some new things, and some old that I needed to be reminded of

1. Time flies, kind of. It could have been just yesterday that I was sleeping on the pull out sofa in Gregory's room, waking up with him 5-6 times a night. But that fog you're in for the first 3 months of your newborn's life does seem to last for years. And today, Charlie is in that 3 year old, all consuming, mind numbing phase that also feels like it's lasting for years. As our friend Ray reminded me, 'It is all just a phase and this too shall pass.' I bet when I wake up tomorrow they'll be stealing my zit cream and putting skull and cross bones 'Keep Out' signs on their bedroom doors.

2. No one is ever going to need me this much for the rest of my life. This scares me, it's a lot of pressure. As well as annoys me, leaving very little breathing room, which is why I complain/blog about it. But ultimately, it feeds my maternal ego. The satisfaction of being the only person who can soothe my baby's cry is empowering and definitely makes me feel like this is the most important thing I could be doing right now.

3. The greeting I get from my kids when I come home (even after only 1 hour) can wipe away any curve ball life has thrown at me that day. 'Mommy, we missed you!' is music to my ears.

4. What you give is commensurate with what you get back. Sometimes I get so caught up in how my kids are trying to steal my remaining youth or ruin my nap time, that I forget that they are re-teaching me some of life's most valuable lessons - patience, listening, love, humor and boundaries. My response to their every action is the lesson for both parent and child.

5. You never realize how easy 1 kid is until you have 2. Unfortunately, you can't ever know this until you've already crossed that bridge, then there's no going back. That being said, there is no greater joy than witnessing your children sharing a moment of laughter or tenderness.

6. That delicious baby smell is gone before you know it. So enjoy and get your snuffs in while you can.

7. One year old's do not care about presents, cake or lots of guests fawning over them at their birthday. Save yourself the hassle of having all of your friends, family, co workers, neighbors over for a party where you're running around like a crazed person the 2 weeks prior. Where your kid has a complete meltdown due to a missed nap and over stimulation, leaving all attendees, especially Mom and Dad, miserable, and stuck with hours of clean up on what should be a festive occasion.
My suggestion, take a few pictures of the kid with a party hat, a cake and some gifts; for posterity sake as well as for the grandparents. Then use the money you saved to hire a babysitter and go out with your significant other to rejoice in your survival.

I'm sure these sound like immature ruminations to parents with older children. Please let me go on thinking for this brief moment in time, how wise I've become in the tutelage of my 1 and 3 year old. I'll be sure to call you for advice when I have to install LoJack in my car and a condom dispenser in my bathroom.

Parison, Oh, Parison

A bunch of Charlie's buddies have developed imaginary friends. Kolby has DoTo, a little girl who comes to his house to play and sometimes live. She emerged not too long after he switched preschools earlier this fall. Sophia has Rae and Karla, 2 little girls who have become an integral part of her life since her best friend moved to South Carolina in April. Most of the newer research says that 'imaginary companions' can indicate social and cognitive awareness in children. It's totally normal and often a sign of creativity and high intelligence. That's all great news except once again, Charlie, in sticking with his 'I'm not going to follow the crowd' mentality, has decided to put his own spin on things. He has an imaginary grandmother and her name is Parison - no, we don't know where the name came from.

Unlike your typical imaginary friend, she never comes to the house, in the car or to the park, he always speaks about her in the past tense. For example, while discussing our Thanksgiving menu, Charlie chimed in, "My grandmother, Parison who lives in Corte Madera, used to give me mashed potatoes on crackers. I like them alot." Great, are you going to have some mashed potatoes on Thursday? "No. I'm going to eat my food, not yours."

From what we can gather, Parison is younger than me (let's call it 25). She's a girl, but on occasion becomes a boy. She lives in Corte Madera at '1-2'; that's it, that's her address. And whenever he discusses her, he always starts out, "My grandmother Parison, who lives in Corte Madera..."
We ask him tons of questions like how he met her, "I met her at tumbling class." Can we meet her, "Yes, of course you can, but not now." When he saw her last, "When she picked me up in her car." We've even asked if Parison is Teri, our babysitter, "No, she's not."

It seems like a lot of kids create their imaginary friends so they have someone to talk to, to blame for wrong doings, or as a coping mechanism (anxiety, fear, loneliness, etc.). I'm not sure what role Parison fulfills for Charlie because she's never actually there; meaning he doesn't interact with her or have conversations. He always refers to her in the past by way of some action or experience. "My grandmother Parison, who lives in Corte Madera, always gives me M&M's after I poop in her potty." It's nice to know he's pooping in someone's potty, cuz it sure ain't happening in ours.

On a drive to Sausalito this past weekend, Charlie mentioned that we were near where Parison lived. Brian went along with it, I think there was a small part of him that actually thought he was going to meet the ever elusive grandmother.
Where should I turn if I want to go to Parison's house? "Turn here, up this hill." We drove up a long hill that dead ended into a cul-de-sac. "Oh, you must have taken a wrong turn, Daddy." Is it this hill here, Charlie? "Yes, up here, go way up, this is where Parison lives." We drive around and around and he's giving Brian very specific directions, "Turn here, go down by that car, now go up that hill." We finally start heading toward our old house where we lived till Charlie was 15 months old. He still loves to drive by and say, "That's where we used to live, in the pink house." As we turn the corner Charlie screams at the top of his lungs, "That's it, that's where Parison lives." Well, whatta you know, she lives in our old pink house.

When we ask Charlie how many grandmother's he has, the answer is always the same, "I have 3. There's Nani (Brian's mom), Papa (Brian's dad), Yia Yia (my Mom), and Parison." Yes, I know that's 4, but as the research indicates, my child is highly creative and clearly that's affecting his counting abilities. We'll continue to report on Parison and how she emerges as a force in Charlie's life. As long as I don't hear, "My grandmother Parison, who lives in Corte Madera, decided to off my mommy so she could be my mother instead of my grandmother." I'm fine coexisting with her.

Clingy Whiny Little Beast

Remember when I said the 2nd time around mother's always baby their youngest, hoping to prolong that easy stage prior to toddler-hood. Well I'm officially done babying Gregory. He's annoying the shit out of me this week as he enters into that clingy toddler phase, what the books call separation anxiety. What does an 11 1/2 month old have to be anxious about? He doesn't have to cook, clean, pay bills, or worry about his belly, muffin topping over his jeans. Whatever it is, it's serious enough that if I even glance at the door he immediately starts crying. It was endearing and cute and made me feel wanted for the first couple of days. But now simply leaving the room to pee, get my shoes, make him a bottle, or to cook dinner, he crawls after me, wailing. Then he sits at my feet, still crying, pulling at my pant leg like a sad, lost, hungry puppy. Is it wrong to want to kick a puppy?

Fortunately, my mother in law arrived last week to spend some time with the kids, help out with all of the pre-Thanksgiving madness, and of course to give me a break. For those of you who don't know, I love my mother in law. Most people have MIL issues or horror stories of some kind. Amazingly, my journal and blog are void of this topic.

When Charlie was born I was in seriously bad shape, both physically and mentally - mourning the loss of my former independent life where I could come and go as I pleased; mourning the death of my father who passed away 10 days prior to Charlie's birth; mourning the loss of my body and perky boobs. My mother in law arrived at our house and asked, "What can I do?" How about you take the baby for a month while I jet off to Mexico to sit on a beach and drink margaritas till I bleed tequila. She said she would do anything but. Well, if you're going to be that unreasonable, then clean my bathroom! She promptly went out, bought herself some rubber gloves and scrubbed the hell out of my toilet, floor and shower. From that point on, I've never held back on telling her what I need her to do to make my life easier.

Her task this visit was to wake up with the kids so I could get a little rest and restore some of my sanity. She said, "Okay." I mean, it takes a special kind of relationship where you can tell someone (who is not your own mother) who has taken time off of work to come to CA for vacation that she's going to be waking up at the crack of ass every morning to care for 2 energetic, willful boys.

My hopes and dreams of sleeping in past 5:30 or going to the gym were dashed day 1. Gregory refused to go to her, or to anyone else for that matter. My mother in law got out of bed yesterday morning to change and feed him, it was 5:30. This boy who loves his bottle more than his own mother, refused to take it from his grandmother. He cried and cried till I dragged my bitter butt out of bed at 5:50.

Selfish, selfish, selfish children. Don't they know this is my chance; my chance to revive, to put that spring back in my step? They clearly do not have my best interest at heart. My husband gave me some unsolicited (read; unwanted) advice. "Before you know it, your kids aren't even going to want to talk to you, let alone be in the same room with you. You should enjoy this time." Gee honey, that's just what I need, a fresh dose of perspective. While I get the point, 7 years is a long fucking time to wait, especially with a whiny dog pulling at your pant leg, monitoring your every move.

Just a Bad Dream?

12:30, 1:47, 3:22, 4:01, 5:35, those are the exact times that Charlie woke me up last night. That's right, A - fucking - M. I know this because I wrote them down so I would remember it wasn't all a bad dream, that it was in fact my bad reality.
The first wake up he just said my name oh so softly next to my ear, "Mommy? Mommy? Mama. Mama." What, honey? "I want to sleep in your bed." It was kind of sweet but we have a rule, everyone stays in their own bed till the sun rises. Back to bed he went, with minimal protest.
The second wake up was a little more disconcerting. I'm not sure how long he stood beside my bed, staring at me, willing me awake. But I sensed something and rolled over to see these 2 beady eyes in the dark. It scared the crap out of me. I thought I was having an encounter with a raccoon - if you've ever been camping, you know what I mean, their eyes glow in the dark, like 2 shiny floating marbles. "I want to sleep in your bed", said with the whiniest, saddest voice ever. "I don't like my bed." Sorry, chief, not good enough. Back to bed, this time there were tears and drama. He was full blown crying, "Noooo, I want your bed." I was quite firm, there is no choice here, you sleep in your bed and when it's light, you can come see me. More crying and ridiculousness, but this is how negotiations with a 3 year old at 2 am transpire, no surprises, just annoyance.
The third wake up was down right creepy. I felt someone gently touching my hair; like that guy who sat behind me in 11th grade homeroom, who would instantly stare at the ceiling when I turned around, pretending he hadn't been groping my locks. And who I later agreed to go to the prom with because he asked (not a lot of dating for me in high school) and because he scared me too much to say no. He wound up spending the whole night off by himself, exploring the darkest corners of the Sheraton Bradley International Airport Hotel for hours on end, only to return to the table, the pockets of his rented tux overflowing with matchbooks. Sadly he doesn't even make it into my top 5 creepiest dates. But I digress.
This was my own kid, I'm not sure which is more creepy? He must have known the old adage, 3rd times a charm, and that he was about to really piss me off. Which he did. I carried him back to his room, dumped him in his bed and said, It's dark, I'm tired, stay in your bed, Charlie. "But I'm wet." Well why didn't you say so? "And I don't like my sheet. I want the comfy, cozy white sheet." (he's talking about those wonderfully plush, chenille sheets from PBK) Charlie, you have a sheet, we'll put the comfy, cozy one on in the morning. Crying, screaming, loudness. "I want the comfy, cozy sheet. I want it. I want it." Be quiet, you'll wake up your brother. "Waaaahhhhh, comfy, cozy sheet." Stop it, just stop it. Get into your bed and we will change your sheet in the morning. Good night, Charlie.
My adrenalin was pumping now and I tossed and turned until the 4 am wake up. Same grievances for both parties, but when I put him back to bed, I told him next time to go wake up his father. I vaguely heard him at 5:30. Props to my boy for being a good listener. He went to bug daddy, not sure what tactic he used to wake him up, but whatever it was, Brian wasn't playing. He promptly brought him into our bed. I guess it was light enough out, because when I awoke at 8 am, Charlie was asleep next to me, looking so serene and angelic.
Maybe it all had been a bad dream? But then I noticed the time markings on the post-it next to my nightstand. Why? Why couldn't I just let myself have this moment of delusion? I was so tired, those 5 wakings could have easily blended into 1 in my mind of mush. I can tell you why - I wanted to chastise my husband with my martyrdom and also I have this annoying habit of always wanting to be right, even with myself. Deservedly, it bites me in the ass more times than I care to count. The universe speaks to me often and I think next time I'm going to wear ear plugs.